Three Months
by Taiven
Summary: When Dean is seriously injured during a standard haunting, Sam wants revenge. The only problem is, there is no way to settle the scores, and Dean only has three months left...
1. Part One

**Summary: **When Dean is seriously injured during a standard haunting, Sam wants revenge. The only problem is there is no way to settle the scores, and Dean only has three months left...

**Timeline**: After _Jus In Bello_.

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Mild language.

**A/N: **Apologies for taking so long to finish this story. I just couldn't get the second part right, and even though I'm still not completely satified with it I decided to post it anyway. Nothing's perfect, right? Anyway, hope you like!

* * *

**Three Months**

Part One

**---**

"_Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would be this hard._"

– The Scientist, Coldplay

---

The day had been sunny, a rare occurrence in the Winchesters' usually dark, overcast lives. White clouds drifted lazily in the sky above them as the sun beat down against the black top of the Impala, the interior almost like an oven but the heat seemingly not an issue to the two men inside. It was even welcomed. A lone hawk used the wind to its advantage as it soared across the open space, appearing to guide them along the beaten road, nice company on this lonely stretch of farmland.

It had been astonishingly beautiful in a peculiar way, for they rarely had the chance to actually _enjoy_ nice weather. Which is exactly what Sam was doing, taking advantage, arm resting on top the open window, wind whipping through his hair, the sun hot against his face. Dean was in the driver's seat next to him, one hand loosely gripping the top of the steering wheel, the other rummaging through a box almost as old as the cassette tapes it held – maybe even more so – and barely maintaining form.

Finally deciding upon one, nearly five minutes after sticking his hand in the box in the first place, Dean popped the tape in the cassette player and _Metallica's_ "Jump in the Fire" was soon playing steadily from the speakers, familiar guitar chords sounding through the muggy air.

"A good ol' fashioned haunting," Dean crooned as he managed to place the box of cassette tapes in the back of the car, eyes kept trained on the road although it was unlikely they would meet any cars out here in the middle of nowhere. The grin on his face was like a child's, giddy with anticipation. "Man, have I missed those. When was the last time we took one on anyway?"

Sam didn't answer, detecting the topic Dean was attempting to bring up, not wanting to get into that discussion again. He didn't want to spoil the nice weather. Anyway, Sam couldn't even remember. It might have been at that creepy ass hotel with the pool and the girl and the old lady Dean had wanted to poke with a stick. God, the things you _do_ remember…

"We should be there in twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen if you drive faster."

"Is that code for 'hurry your ass up' or something?" Dean asked while casting his brother a sideways glance. "What's the rush anyway? We've got plenty of time."

Sam folded the map he had cradled in his lap neatly in his hands and held on to it, storm clouds on their way. "I guess I just want to get this hunt over with." His excuse was lacking reason, but Dean already knew the answer he had refused to give.

"You just think this is a waste of our time," the older Winchester announced, a slight tone of anger in his voice.

Sam was quick with a response for he had expected this exact remark. It was what he had been trying to avoid, but obviously that was easier said than done. These things always seemed to win out when it came to Dean. He always got Sam to talk, though Sam could never say the same when it came to Dean discussing what _he_ was thinking. Take this whole "one year left to live" business, except now it was only three months. Three months and eight days to be exact. He couldn't help but count.

"I never said this was a waste of our time."

"But you were thinking it," Dean stated assertively, his voice deep and edgy, just how it always sounded when he was serious and confident, sometimes even cocky. "You think anything that doesn't involve The Deal is not worth considering. You're forgetting that there are people out there who need our help."

"I haven't forgotten that." Sam's tone matched his brother's. Hell, he'd _copied_ it from his brother when he was only twelve. "We've hunted and destroyed plenty of demons-"

"Only because you think one of them will be able to help me," Dean interrupted in his argument, not daring to take his eyes off of the road ahead, fearing he would see the hurt in his brother's eyes. Maybe he was selfish, but he was not willing to feel the guilt again, like a giant wave forming inside of him, ready to break and drown him from the inside out.

"The Deal's done Sammy," Dean said in a softer voice, the anger still there but not directed to his brother's refusal of acceptance; more towards himself, for not being able to figure out a way to leave Sam whole, intact. To maybe not leave him at all, though Dean knew that was impossible. There was no ritual, no exchange of sacrifice that would sever this deal. It had been set in stone, and Dean was damned if he was about to take a sledgehammer to it, because it was too risky. Any of it, even allowing Sam to use up the contacts in his phone, asking all the hunters, priests, and merchants they knew if they had any idea how to stop hell itself from opening up and swallowing you whole. He knew the terms of the bargain well, and he didn't want to see Sam lifeless again, lying on a bed in some rundown motel, skin pale and icy cold to the touch, chest unmoving. No, never again.

Sam was silent. Had been for the past minute. Dean chanced a glance but could discern little from the back of Sam's head, the younger man's face turned to the open window; unwilling to let Dean see the emotions etched into his features. Dean was glad for that, didn't know if he could take it. _Damn kid and his puppy dog eyes_.

The past could not be changed. His fate would not be altered.

"We still have three months…" Quiet, the words almost lost amongst the roar of the Impala's engine and the drums of Metallica.

The older Winchester sighed but nodded his head, the only other physical reaction a tightening of his hand on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. "Yah, Sammy. We do."

--

They arrived at the farmhouse within the estimated range of time and immediately got to work. The building was an old fashioned two storey with several shuttered windows facing the winding dirt path that lead from the main road. It was fairly isolated, the nearest neighbour located on a farm thirteen kilometres away.

"So we know that the spirit is not connected to its body?" Dean directed this knowledge as a question while he opened the trunk of the Impala and revealed the secret compartment hidden within it. He reached for his shotgun as his brother answered him.

"The owner of the house said the body was cremated. The only possible thing that could be keeping the spirit here is the grand piano in the basement." Sam grabbed his own shotgun and began to load it with rock salt. "It's the only object that had a significance in Henry DeVancs life when he was alive."

"Henry DeVanc, old bastard back from hell," Dean chuckled to himself, enjoying every moment that reminded him of when ghost hunting had been a regular job. It seemed all they hunted now were demons. "Right, so if it's as simple as burning the damn piano then why didn't the owner do it himself?"

"Because the ghost was too violent by the time he called us and realized the piano was the source," Sam replied as he shut the trunk of the car. "He didn't feel safe entering the house."

"Wimp," Dean muttered under his breath, but then followed his brother to the front porch of the dwelling. Using the key they had been given by the owner, they quietly entered the house and looked around.

It seemed ordinary besides a few dents in the walls that seemed out of place. A winding staircase stood before them, hiding half of the old fashioned kitchen from view but leaving the living room to their right open for inspection from where they stood. A dark, narrow hallway was located on their left, two doors attached to it. One they knew lead to a small washroom while the other contained stairs leading to the unfinished basement.

Shotguns at the ready, the brothers headed directly to the bottom floor where they knew the piano was situated. If the spirit did not manifest then this job would be incredibly easy. An in and out event that simply involved the destruction of a grand piano by death of burning.

However, from what the owner had told them, the spirit haunting the house was by no means a friendly one. Apparently this one had already tried to kill the owner of the house by pushing him down the stairs and attempting to drown him in his own bathtub. It had also spilt a pot full of boiling water on a guest, resulting in third degree burns.

The basement was cluttered with objects of all kinds. Mainly junk littered the cement floor and climbed to the ceiling in piles pushed into three corners of the rectangular room. However, the fourth corner held a massive grand piano, its three legs small and wobbly compared to the large mass they surprisingly were able to maintain.

He'd never admit it, but Dean had always had a deep appreciation for the piano. Sure, he listened to crashing drums and winding guitar solos practically all day long, but the piano had something about it. He had seen a few pianists play, and even though he had watched their concerts on crappy motel television sets when nothing else was on, he could see how each musician seemed to lose themselves in the music. It was as if they entered some sort of trance, their fingers moving in a blur as they skimmed across the keys. Some sat with their backs straight, tense yet flowing, while others moved their shoulders to the music. Either way, it was sort of, well, magical.

Dean shook his head slightly to remain focused. If Sam was capable of reading thoughts he's probably be rolling on the ground in a fit of laughter by now. Dean couldn't allow that, so he cleared his throat and followed his brother to the piano. Sam was looking around the basement, almost as if he were searching for an appearance by the ghost even though he knew it was a poltergeist and invisible to the human eye. Nonetheless, it was always good to be wary.

"All right, let's do this. Give me the gasoline." Dean held out his open hand while he examined the piano. The top was a deep brown, currently closed with a few scratches littering its surface.

"I thought you brought it," stated Sam as Dean's head whipped upwards to stare at his younger brother. After a moment of silence his outstretched hand dropped heavily to his side. "Sam, I told you to grab it from the motel."

Sam was quick to defend. "I didn't hear you say that!"

"Well maybe you should clear the wax out of your ears then, because I did." Dean sighed heftily, pursing his lips as he stared at the piano. "Well I sure as hell ain't waiting another day to do this. The piano looks pretty flammable, so let's just do without the gasoline."

Dean could tell Sam was mulling the idea over, his brow creased in thought. "It's safe to bet DeVanc is going to get pretty pissed as soon as this thing catches fire."

"Why hasn't the old bastard attacked us so far? I mean, he's supposed to be some violent poltergeist, right? Not really living up to the reputation." Dean pressed his lips together. "I'm kind of disappointed actually."

"Apparently he only goes after those who mess with his piano. You sure it'll burn fast enough?"

"I guess that's something we'll just have to find out and see Sammy." Dean made his way to the far corner of the piano, his back facing the basement wall. "The real question here is," He grinned as he took a lighter from his coat pocket. "How much do you remember from your boy scout days?"

Sam grinned back, taking his position at another piano leg. "You don't have a chance."

Both brothers crouched next to the piano, each holding a small flame to old wood that seemed to be on the verge of decay, the musty environment of the basement no place for the delicate piece of furniture. After a few moments the wood finally caught and small flames began to flicker up the leg of the piano, spreading quickly over the wooden keys in less than a minute. Dean stood up from where he was crouching, a disappointed look on his face as he stared at the hungry blaze. "Damn it," he cursed. "I almost had mine lit."

Sam smirked at him from across the large piece of furniture. "I could always start a fire faster than you Dean, even when we were kids."

"Yah, well this ain't boy scouts Sammy. I would have had this fire going in a second if you hadn't forgotten the gasoline."

"_Me_?" Sam asked in mock outrage. "_You_ were the one who was supposed to-"

Without warning, the piano suddenly jerked backwards, a loud, abrupt grinding noise echoing against the walls as the legs of the piano scraped against the cement floor. Dean jumped back and stared at it as if the piece of furniture had teeth. He looked up at his brother with alarm clearly visible in his eyes, the brightness of the fire mixing with his distress as the flames tore across the top of the piano.

Not less than two seconds after the furniture's unexpected movement, the grand piano skidded back even further, this time with such great velocity that Dean had no time to react.

Sam watched in horror as the large, burning object connected with his brother. The sound of the one lit leg splintering from the heat of the fire sounded through the room at the same time as the sickening crack of Dean's body colliding with the cement wall. The piano made a deafening crash as its right corner fell to the ground in a heap of broken wood and hissing flames. Dean's scream of agony came directly afterwards.

The hefty piano had pinned Dean to the wall. The piece of furniture was still standing on two legs and one collapsed corner, and behind it Dean was trying desperately to push the large object away from him. The fire had draped itself across the entire top of the piano and hungry flames were now licking at the older Winchester's clothes.

"Sam!" Dean called out over the growling of the flames. The younger Winchester had already made his way to the back of the piano and was frantically attempting to push it aside. However, the fixture would not budge and Sam realized that the spirit was holding it there.

"Dean, hold on," he grunted as he pushed with all his strength. A stray flame bit at his hand and he instinctively drew back. He had to douse the fire before it reached his brother. He had to let the piano burn to destroy the spirit and free Dean. He didn't know what to do. He had no _freakin'_ clue.

Glancing at his brother, Sam noticed the pain distorting his face and the look of wild panic in his eyes. The flames were uncomfortably close to the older Winchester and were just beginning to singe his leather jacket. Sam decided to give the piano one last shove before giving up and dousing the flames. Putting his shoulder against the wood, ignoring the heat from the fire and the squirming of his brother to his right, Sam pushed with all his strength.

As another piano leg shattered and collapsed, the hold of the ghost seemed to instantly weaken and the piano went crashing into the second wall. Sam barely caught himself from falling forward as his muscles ached with the effort. Instantly turning his head in the direction of his brother, he saw Dean slumped against the wall, now in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Sam practically dove towards him, dropping to his knees by his brother's side as he took in the damage. Dean was sitting on the floor, having slid down the wall as soon as he was free of the burning piano. However, his head was lulled to the side, his eyes barely open. A stream of blood was dripping down his chin, his clothes masking the internal damage done to his abdomen when he had been pinned.

Sam instinctively pulled his cell phone out and was dialling for help, though he went through the motions unaware of what he was actually doing. It almost seemed as if he were two people at the moment, one taking action and doing what had to be done while the other simply stared at his brother, completely frozen.

_We still have three months._ The words echoed in Sam's head as his other self reached out a hand and felt Dean's pulse. He could see his brother's chest rising shakily but he needed the reassurance of an actual heartbeat; a promise that Dean would not leave him. Not yet.

"You're going to be okay Dean. Help is coming," Sam assured his barely conscience brother, realizing that he had already hung up the phone after stating the address they were located at to the dispatcher. He could hear the crackling of the fire and faintly wondered how he would explain their situation later on. The thought was barely acknowledged, however, for Dean was trying to move.

An unrecognizable sound escaped his brother's lips as Dean raised his head, eyes opening wider. Suddenly Sam understood what he had said, and leaned in closer. "I'm here Dean. I'm right here."

Dean looked confused, his eyes glossy in the fading embers of the burning piano. It seemed as though DeVanc had finally been destroyed, but Sam had no time to think of that. "I can't see you," Dean stated, alarm in his voice. "I-I can't see you."

"Don't worry Dean, I'm here. You're going to be okay," But almost as if in challenge to Sam's words, Dean's eyes slid shut and no sirens could be heard over the crackling of the fire.


	2. Part Two

**Three Months**

Part Two

_---_

_"Have you heard? Have you tried to understand? It's all right. It gets easier with time_."

- One More Day, Vast

---

"I've seen you in worse shape Dean, and I've seen you pull through."

Somewhere in Sam's mind it had registered that his brother was unconscious and unable to hear his words, but he continued to talk nonetheless. He needed to hear something other than the crackling of the fire and his own rapid breathing. He needed to pretend that everything would be alright.

"Remember that time in Delaware? You fell close to three stories when that homunculus pushed you out the window of that crazy old woman's apartment. Dad rushed you to the hospital and you walked out less than a week later. Remember?"

It had worked before, pretending. That's what Sam reminded himself as he kept his brother from slouching over, one hand gripped firmly on Dean's left shoulder. The older Winchester looked pale, the blood on his chin standing out like red wine spilt on a white tablecloth.

"I mean, the doctors said it was a miracle you could still walk. They said you would need _years_ of physical therapy but you just hopped down from that bed and walked straight out of the room. You were seventeen Dean, and I still remember the smirk you had on your face when all the doctors practically gasped at the same time."

He had to believe – to pretend – that his brother would be okay, because it had worked before. He had hoped and prayed and then Dean had walked away from his fall against the judgement of every doctor in the hospital. Sam knew it had been a miracle, but Dean had claimed it was luck. Pure, dumb luck.

"You've always been one hell of a lucky bastard Dean," He let out a choked laugh, wishing his brother would laugh too, maybe give a cocky grin. Instead he simply lay there, unmoving.

Sam strained his ears for the sound of an ambulance but no such sound came. He didn't know how much time had passed since he had called 911, but it felt like hours. Biting his lower lip to fight the panic building in his throat in the form of a scream, he wanted to shake his brother's shoulders like he would if he were sleeping. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

"Damn it Dean, just wake up." His hand transformed into a fist, curling itself in Dean's blood stained shirt. "Please… Just wake up…"

Then there it was; the faint sound of sirens blaring in the still afternoon air. Sam's head swung around to face the basement stairs, partially believing that the paramedics would immediately be rushing down the steps. However, it took almost two entire minutes before such a thing happened, but when it did Sam could already feel how cold his brother was.

Everything happened in a blur then. Sam allowed the paramedics to push him to the side, automatically lying about who they were and what had happened. He watched as they loaded his brother onto a stretcher and carefully carried him up the basement steps. He had numbly followed them, climbing into the ambulance before it sped off in the direction of the hospital, the sirens sounding impossibly loud now. He had watched as the paramedics did the best they could to stabilize his brother, speaking a language he barely understood, full of medical lingo.

And as the ambulance finally slowed down and the back doors swung open in a flurry of commotion, Sam knew he would wake up soon. He knew this nightmare would end and he would awaken in the passenger seat of the Impala. His brother would be grinning at him like a fool from behind the wheel, probably having taken another picture with his cell phone of him drooling in his sleep that he would send to Bobby. Everything would be all right.

But then a group of doctors surrounded his brother and rushed him off through the hospital doors, and all Sam could do was stay behind and watch as Dean disappeared from sight.

--

More than five hours later, the time spent downing more coffee than his bladder could handle, Sam found that maybe pretending wasn't the key to his brother's safety. There had been little news from the doctors other than to say that Dean was in surgery, and he was beginning to think that he needed something stronger than hope.

_This isn't right. This can't be happening. Not now. Not with only three months left…_

Sam couldn't keep still as he sat in the private waiting room, the other seats empty. His right foot continuously tapped the clean tiled floor as he twisted his hands in his lap.

The worst part was he had been here before. Not in this exact hospital of course, but in others that smelt the same and looked the same and _felt_ the same. They were all the same.

He remembered talking to a pair of police officers in a similar waiting room. He had wanted nothing more than to scream at them. To tell them to '_back the hell off'_ and to let him see his brother. It had been a similar situation back then too. Dean had suffered a major heart attack and Sam hadn't known whether he would make it. Then the doctor had told him that his brother had less than a month left to live.

_Three months…_ Sam suddenly realized he had dealt with worse. Three months was a long time to figure out a way to save his brother if he survived this. He had done the very same thing with only a few weeks on his brother's ticket.

_But at what price?_

Shaking the thought from his head, Sam looked around the waiting room for the seventeenth time that hour. It reminded him of another room, one where he had stayed for what seemed like a lifetime as he had waited to hear the fate of his injured father and brother when they had been hit by a truck more than a year ago. Dean had _less_ than a month then. Maybe just a few hours. Still, he had made it.

_But what of our father?_

What would be sacrificed this time? Sam didn't like recalling the reason why Dean had three months left to live in the first place, but he did so now to remind himself that sacrifice was not the way to go. But it seemed as if that was all that was left. All that was there to begin with. It all came down to sacrifice.

Standing up, his knees cracking with the sudden movement after sitting for hours, Sam made his way out of the waiting room and away from the memories. He needed to do something. The last doctor had told him that it would still be a few hours before Dean was out of surgery and ready to receive visitors. He needed to busy himself.

_The Impala._ It had been left at the farmhouse with a trunk full of arsenal. He had to retrieve it. That would do.

It took Sam only a few minutes to call a cab and give the driver directions to the house out in the country. The cab driver tried to make conversation in the beginning but was quickly shot down by Sam's one worded replies. He didn't say thank you when Sam paid him the twenty bucks and got out of the car, driving away immediately and leaving the Winchester in the dark, gravely driveway.

Sam barely gave the Impala a glance as he walked up the steps to the farmhouse door and walked inside. He made his way immediately to the basement.

The shadows were darker than before, no added light streaming in from the small windows lining the walls. Staring at the mass of blackened wood crumpled in one of the corners, the ashes skewed across the floor, Sam breathed deeply through his nose. He quickly skimmed his eyes over the boxes that were piled throughout the room before walking slowly over to the remains of the piano.

He avoided the spot in the room where his brother had slumped to the ground, focusing his attention on the broken piano. Recalling its shape when it had been whole and intact, he wondered what it had sounded like and realized that he had never pressed a key before lighting it on fire. He had noticed Dean's hand slightly gliding over the keys when they had first come to it, almost as if he was about to play, but his older brother had never pushed a key either.

Slowly crouching, Sam reached out an arm and stroked his fingers through a pile of the ashes. Then he raised his hand to his face, staring at the blackened tips of his fingers. He remained still for a moment, his heart beating steadily in his chest, but then he could no longer hold the rage within him.

As he sprung upwards, grabbing a piece of wood that had not been completely burned, he swung it with all his strength against the wall. As one end smashed into the cement he pulled back and swung again and again and again until there was nothing left but a thousand splinters surrounding his feet. Then he began kicking the pile of burnt furniture, watching as pieces of varying sizes went flying into the wall, ash billowing up in a dark cloud. He felt a sharp pain in his leg but barely acknowledged it as he continued to kick blindly.

Once every piece of the piano had been reduced to a pile of splinters he looked around the room, searching for something he would never find. "Come on you bastard!" he screamed into the emptiness. "Come here and let me see you!" He continued yelling for a few more minutes before he finally gave up, slumping to the ground in a heap of limbs, knowing from the beginning that there would be no answer. The ghost had been destroyed just as the piano had, and now there was no way to settle the score.

--

The room was dark and silent. Sam was sore and his limbs were stiff from sitting in the same position for hours. He had noticed a cut on his left leg that he must have received earlier at the farmhouse, but he didn't move from the chair to treat it. He didn't even shift or stretch his legs or arms, afraid that the slightest movement might cause the heart monitor to stop beeping. He stared at it with unblinking eyes for long moments, willing it to stay on rhythm; to not break pattern. When he wasn't doing this he was staring down at his hands or his feet, thoughts flickering through his mind.

Shortly after he had driven to the hospital, sitting behind the Impala's steering wheel and feeling incredibly out of place, he had been told that Dean's surgery had gone well and that he would recover, though it would take a long time before he was back to full health. The piano had caused extensive damage and Dean had lost a lot of blood due to internal bleeding. Several of his ribs had been broken and one had pierced his left lung, causing it to collapse. There were also a few minor problems with his lower spinal cord.

Upon hearing the doctor's news Sam had felt himself slowly go numb. Recovery was slated for up to eight months, and Sam had felt like telling the doctor that it all didn't matter. His brother was going to die in three months anyway, and who cared about _this_ treatment plan or _that_ one? Dean would be stuck in this hospital until he died, and there was nothing Sam could do about it.

But he had stopped thinking about that a long time ago. He kept wondering why Dean had not pressed the keys. It had been so obvious that he had wanted to, if only just one to hear the sound of the piano. He had skimmed the keys with his fingers, yet still he had refrained. Maybe he had feared that playing the piano would summon the poltergeist, but that would never have stopped his brother. It simply made no sense.

Then there was the memory of Dean jumping down from that hospital bed twelve years ago. He had fallen three stories yet had suffered little less than a sore back and a sprained wrist. There had been no sacrifice then. No one had to die to save Dean that time, but it had been so long ago, and he wondered if moments like that happened only once in a lifetime.

"Sam?" The voice was barely louder than a whisper, but it caused Sam's head to immediately whip upwards where he was met with his brother's glazed eyes.

"Dean." Sam sat up straight in the chair and leaned forward. He wanted to smile with relief but he felt the need to say something. Anything. The only problem was no words came to mind, so he settled on stating the obvious. "You're awake."

"Guess so," Dean said in response, his voice having gained a little strength this time but still weak. "What happened?"

Sam was not used to hearing his brother's voice sound so quiet. It unnerved him a little, but he managed to answer nonetheless. "The, uh… "good ol' fashioned haunting" got a little out of hand," he said, mimicking his brother's earlier words. It was supposed to be an attempt at humour but Sam didn't laugh and Dean appeared to be too out of it to even pick up on the joke. However, he seemed to be sharp enough to sense his brother's mood, his eyebrows immediately slanting downward in a frown.

"You okay Sammy?" Dean slurred from unmoving lips, and Sam almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.

"Yah," he smiled, trying hard to keep the sadness from his voice. "I'm fine."

Dean blinked slowly, his face relaxing and smoothening once more after hearing his brother's answer. His eyes flickered to his left, taking in the white walls and the horde of beeping machines piled beside him. "Am _I_ okay?"

Sam stared, wondering if he could avoid answering the question by quickly changing the subject and praying that Dean would be too disoriented to notice. But he couldn't do that, and he couldn't lie. Not now.

"You're, uh, in pretty bad shape Dean," he was finally able to choke out. However, Dean didn't seem to notice the catch in his brother's voice, a puzzled look taking hold of his expression as he tried to sort through the words. He seemed dazed from the drugs the hospital was currently pumping into his veins, his eyelids threatening to slide shut at any moment.

"Bad, huh?" Dean gave in and closed his eyes as he mumbled, "I don't feel anything."

Sam could tell his brother had already slipped back into the world of slumber when he quietly whispered, "Me neither…" He stared down at his hands held still in his lap. They were numb just like the rest of his body and Sam was unsure if he would ever be able to move again. He didn't know how to wake up from this nightmare.

"We'll be okay Dean," he said after a moment of silence in which the steady beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound echoing within the room. His words were meant more for him than for his sleeping brother, and he repeated them to truly make himself understand. "We'll be okay. I know we will." But the truth was he didn't.

He never did.

He would have to accept it though. He would have to accept that they only had three months left and that this is where they would have to spend it. Sam hated hospitals but he would stay. Every day he would sit in this room by his brother's side and he would simply be here.

Because Dean had walked away from a three storey fall.

Because they had sacrificed too much already.

Because Dean had not pressed the keys, and Sam wanted him to hear the piano play.

Because they only had three months, and Sam was damned if he was ever going to let those three months slip away.

**The End.**


End file.
